Dedication
This is for the fans of Dorothea Benton Frank.
She loved and appreciated every one of you.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
A Letter from the Editor by Carrie Feron
Peter’s Speech at the Celebration of Life for Dottie Frank
Introduction by Victoria Benton Frank
“Bridesmaids” by Patti Callahan
1: The Answer
2: The Other Proposal
3: The House
4: The Moon
5: The Next Day
6: The Last Night
Epilogue: What Happens Next
About Patti Callahan
Also by Patti Callahan
“Summer of ’79” by Elin Hilderbrand
1: Hot Child in the City
2: Baby, What a Big Surprise
3: Sad Eyes
4: Heart of Glass
5: Night Fever
6: Paradise by the Dashboard Light
7: Life in the Fast Lane
8: Looks Like We Made It
9: Reunited
10: We Are Family
About Elin Hilderbrand
Also by Elin Hilderbrand
“Postcards from Heaven” by Adriana Trigiani
Introduction
Chapter 1
In Memoriam
About Adriana Trigiani
Also by Adriana Trigiani
“Mother and Child Reunion” by Mary Alice Monroe
Dedication
1: Mother
2: Daughter
3: Reunion
About Mary Alice Monroe
Also by Mary Alice Monroe
“Lowcountry Stew” by Cassandra King Conroy
About Cassandra King Conroy
Also by Cassandra King Conroy
“Dottie and Me” by Mary Norris
About Mary Norris
Also by Mary Norris
“Making of a Friendship” by Jacqueline Bouvier Lee
“Dottie: The Sparkling Comet” by Gervais Hagerty
About Gervais Hagerty
Also by Gervais Hagerty
Essay and Poetry by Marjory Wentworth
Essay
Poems
About Marjory Wentworth
Also by Marjory Wentworth
Essays and Recipes by Nathalie Dupree
Snails
How I Got to France
Soufflé Omelet with Fraises des Bois
Majorcan Snails
How I Got Started
Lynn Benton Bagnal’s Pound Cake
About Nathalie Dupree
Also by Nathalie Dupree
Essays by Dorothea Benton Frank
Dorothea Benton Frank’s Letter to Her Readers I
Instant Pot Hoppin’ John
Dorothea Benton Frank’s Favorite Cocktails: Limoncello Spritz
Dorothea Benton Frank’s Letter to Her Readers II
Shrimp and Grits
Dorothea Benton Frank’s Favorite Cocktails: Throwing Persimmons
Dorothea Benton Frank’s Letter to Her Readers III
Smoked Pulled Pork Sandwiches with Slaw
Dorothea Benton Frank’s Favorite Cocktails: Peach Season
Afterword by William Frank
About the Authors
Copyright
About the Publisher
PREFACE
A Letter from the Editor
Carrie Feron
Dear Readers—
In the summer of 2018, a year prior to her death, Dorothea Benton Frank attended her fifty-year high school reunion in Charleston, South Carolina. The event brought back a lot of her memories of high school—rivalries and cliques, as well as long friendships—and Dottie (as I called her) decided her next book, scheduled for 2020, would center on a similar event. Dottie called the book Reunion Beach. The twist was that each of the various characters would resemble a South Carolina bird—most would be raptors, or birds of prey. She was smitten with the idea and could not wait to get started, although at the time she was still working on Queen Bee.
Dottie was simultaneously the most professional and most seat-of-the-pants author I ever edited. Though she always knew what she would write, and exactly which bookstores she would visit to meet her fans a year in advance, she never actually finished the manuscripts until late winter/early spring of the year of publication. I spent many February and March weeks in South Carolina, editing pages as she wrote them, and somehow the books came out in May. The fifteen years of editing her books was filled with fun: we would hole up in her house on Sullivan’s Island, eat a lot of great South Carolina food at local restaurants, walk the beach, and celebrate Saint Patrick’s Day on the main street. Often we would have our hair done for dinner and get manicures and pedicures. Dottie was always elegant. Plus there was usually an adventure at hand when Dottie was around. Did the golf cart once die on the only deserted street on the island? Yes. Did a nanny wreck her employer’s minivan by plowing into and totaling Dottie’s parked car while we were working on edits in the house? Yes. Did our boat once get stuck in the pluff mud? Of course. Did we once surprise a book club that was reading her book? Yes, indeed. Plus Dottie ended up helping make the appetizers. Did we make major changes to the manuscripts at the very last minute—we did. The year she wrote All Summer Long (spoiler alert), the husband originally died at the end of the novel, but I convinced her he was too fine a character to suffer that fate and the ending became a dream sequence. So I guess one year I even saved a Lowcountry life. Every book made its publication date. But most of all we had a lot of fun, and I fell in love with South Carolina.
Editors are usually the cheerleaders and first fans of a novel. But just as favorite books become “friends,” authors with whom editors work become friends as well. In the spring of 2019 Dottie went on book tour as always for Queen Bee, but was overwhelmed with exhaustion. I believe her favorite thing about writing her books was her May “perspiration tour” of the South and meeting fans, and even though tired she soldiered on. On July 4 she called me with her dire diagnosis, and on September 2, 2019, my friend was gone. Dottie’s husband, Peter, was generous enough to let me look through her office computer and memory stick as well as the papers on her desk, but there was no evidence that Reunion Beach was anything but a fabulous idea. There were no notes on the story line.
Luckily her creative writer friends were inspired by the title Reunion Beach and have joined together with stories, essays, poems, and memories in tribute to Dorothea Benton Frank’s love of the Lowcountry and for the books she never had the opportunity to write.
In closing, I will tell you that Dottie loved to give advice, so I thought I should include two of her greatest hits here:
If you are choosing between two pairs of shoes, pick the red ones.
Remember to sparkle.
Sparkle on, fans of Dorothea Benton Frank. Please enjoy Reunion Beach.
Carrie Feron,
Editor
Peter’s Speech at the Celebration of Life for Dottie Frank
Thank you for coming to celebrate the fantastic life of Dottie Frank. She touched millions of people’s lives through her bestselling novels. Dottie was larger than life and a force of nature. As we all know, whatever she put her mind to, she made a great success.
From building a women’s sportswear company, sitting on educational and art boards, raising money for many causes—some of which many of you were involved in—working on the New Jersey State Council of the Arts, writing twenty New York Times bestselling novels to receiving three honorary doctorate degrees.
Dottie had amazing energy, wisdom, and an irreverent wit. She was incredibly generous and brought joy an
d laughter to everyone she met. Dottie made a difference. The world is a better place for her having been here.
She was beautiful and glamorous. And, man, she sure could throw a party.
Dottie was a wonderful mother, a great friend, and a phenomenal wife and lover.
She made our family’s lives fun, exciting, and meaningful, she taught me so much about being selfless and the power of happiness.
We had a wonderful, passionate marriage that I am so thankful for. I would take thirty-nine years with Dottie before I would take one hundred years with anyone else. SP—I will miss you so much.
Let’s all toast Dottie!
[To Dottie!]
Introduction
Victoria Benton Frank by Molly Lawson
Victoria Benton Frank
Dorothea Benton Frank was Dottie to the world, to her friends, and to her family, but to me she was always Momma. Momma believed in magic. She was the ultimate magician whenever there was none to be found. She wove it through her stories, planted it in her garden, made it in her food, and made the impossible seem possible in any way she could.
We all knew that she was an incredible storyteller, but I would always joke that she was just writing the truth and calling it fiction. My momma had a fantastic life. We all miss her, because, well, it just isn’t as much fun without her, but whenever I get sad, I think about what a riot of a life she lived, and how everything she touched was better because she made it so, and even though she is gone, her lessons, which she so carefully taught me, are carrying me through. Not just the fun ones like the “Three F’s: food, fashion, and family.” Or that pink always makes you look pretty, hair is fifty percent of your looks, or when in doubt buy red over black. I hope one day to plant the seeds of Dot’s garden in my own children. Making them also believe in magic.
Birthdays in our life were national holidays. Hers especially. One of Dot’s rules was “The three-gift minimum.” Something had to smell good, something had to feel good, and something had to sparkle. You were not allowed to give a gift to someone that had a plug attached to it, or something that would benefit yourself. It had to be something the person would never buy for themselves, and bonus points were given if it thrilled them. Momma loved to thrill.
When I was four years old, I was obsessed with The Little Mermaid. So naturally, Momma turned herself inside out to turn our sunroom into an underwater escape. She hired local actors to put on a live performance of The Little Mermaid, and as goodie bags, she gave everyone a Little Mermaid–themed fishbowl with two live goldfish. Meanwhile, most of the fish died within a week, and Dot took a few phone calls from upset parents.
When I was five, it was The Wizard of Oz. So she bought a sewing machine and made me an exact copy of Dorothy’s dress, and with a hot glue gun pasted bright red sequins all over a pair of Mary Janes, giving her permanent scars all along her arms. The same actors came over and performed, and the sunroom was then transformed into the Emerald City. She got on all fours and hand-sponged a yellow brick road for me on mural paper. Nothing was impossible, and everything was fantastic.
Belonging to my mother wasn’t just a privilege for reasons obvious to everyone; what she did that I miss the most is that she made me feel like we were a secret team against the world and the rules didn’t apply to us. She never told me to be quiet, instead encouraged me to laugh as hard and loud as possible. She wanted me to question things. She allowed me to read anything I wanted at any age. Movies were limited, but not books. I read Valley of the Dolls at twelve years old. She sat me down and gave me the honest answer to all of my questions. I remember asking her why people did drugs, and her response was perfect: “Because they make you feel good, but they will ruin your life.” As a result, I never did any drugs.
In high school I transferred my junior year to a public school and didn’t have any friends. The mean girls ignored me and so my mom pulled up in her navy blue Mercedes-Benz and picked me up every day and took me to lunch so I didn’t have to be alone. I was never sad about those silly girls, I was happy to spend the time with my mom. Once I finally did make friends, we would all go over to my house to have lunch with her anyways. Everyone wanted to be around her.
In college, I never went on any spring break trips with my sorority sisters or friends, I went somewhere with her. Some of my best memories are from those trips. I was so lucky to be her friend and her daughter. I spent the entire two weeks laughing.
As I got older, got married, and had children, our relationship changed. She sat me down and said, “Victoria, you’re a writer. I know this in my bones. Stop cooking, stop working in boutiques, write your story, or I will.” So I started to write. I would send her what I was working on, hoping she’d lend her expertise, and she would always just say, “Keep going.” She encouraged me to be anything I wanted, but she wanted me to see the wonderful world she got to see by being a storyteller.
I was lucky enough to go on a book tour with her twice. We had so much fun we couldn’t believe we were getting paid to be together! I got to see her in her groove. Talking to packed theaters, libraries, schools, bookstores where the masses would come to hear her talk. If you have ever seen my mom speak, then you know it was a little like stand-up comedy, but then she would open her heart and read a passage from one of the books she had written, and it was like looking into her soul. She connected with her readers because she wasn’t afraid to go deep. She could make you laugh and cry and also give you something to think about. Her stories were sad and heartwarming but they were also funny. Humor, my momma always taught me, is the sharpest tool in one’s toolbox. You can say anything, if you make them laugh.
Maybe that’s what I miss the most, making her laugh. Every single day we talked . . . usually a few times . . . and emailed, texted, etc. I would try to make her laugh. Whenever I did it was like hearing a love song. Her laughter was approval. She would say, “Oh, Victoria, you’re so crazy. I love you girl” and my day would be made.
I MISS MY FRIEND. I miss my soul mate. I miss the moon to my tide. I was lost at first, but then I remembered she gave me everything I needed to dig deeper, to try harder, and to never forget to create magic. She gave me hope, and faith in myself and my ability to go on. I am not lost. I am very grounded. My children will always know her, she will never be forgotten. My wonderful, magical Momma.
Right before she got sick, she attended her high school reunion, and was going to write a book about her memories, her friendships, and the women she knew when they were girls. Instead, now we women, her friends and fellow storytellers, have all come together in a reunion, to write about my momma, and how she created inspirational magic in their lives. I hope you read these memories and stories inspired by the great and wonderful Dorothea Benton Frank. If there was one thing my mom inspired and encouraged it was the power of women coming together, and especially to share stories.
Bridesmaids
Patti Callahan
1
The Answer
Lachlan was waiting for an answer. Beatrice’s answer.
And she didn’t have one.
The lemon-light of the restaurant’s overhead chandeliers fell onto the linen-covered tablecloth in shaded patterns, imitating branches of a naked tree. Beatrice stared at that pattern because she couldn’t look Lachlan in the eye, her mind scrambling for the right words.
As if there were right words.
“Beatrice.” Lachlan said her name softly, and she finally lifted her gaze to his. “Are you here?”
“I am. I just don’t know what to say.”
“It’s simple,” he said.
“And complicated,” she said.
They, by all rights, looked exactly like who they were: a middle-aged and quite beautiful couple in love at a fine restaurant—the Olde Pink House on Abercorn in the heart of Savannah, Georgia. Soft music played in the background from a piano player in the far corner by the fireplace. Lachlan, in his fifties, silver at his temple with tortoiseshell glasses reflecting th
e candles. Beatrice, with her thick chestnut hair tied in a low bun at the nape of her neck, her hands clasped in her lap.
“It’s not that complicated,” he said, his voice tightening. “It’s a yes or a no. Really, that’s all it is.”
She held his gaze; his beautiful gaze she had come to love so much—the green eyes rimmed in blue, almond shaped with thick black eyelashes; usually gentle and teasing at the same time. But now serious.
He was right; it wasn’t that complicated.
For the second time within a single minute, he lifted the blue velvet box for her to see. It was open and inside rested a two-carat solitaire round diamond surrounded by sapphires, her birthstone. Lachlan didn’t miss a beat. He never had and probably never would. He loved her as deeply as she could dare ask. And she loved him. His shoulders a shelf for her to rest upon; his laugh a symphony, and his voice deep enough to make people turn when he spoke. Yet he wasn’t a pushover—this ask, for the second time, was as good as his heart exposed.
But marriage? My God. Not again. The first had lasted fifteen years; years that Beatrice had believed were true and real, but that marriage had been over for ten years now. Why would she do that again?
“Will you, Beatrice, marry me? Yes or no.”
Other patrons of the candlelit restaurant were beginning to stare, whisper quietly, maybe prepare to clap in an outburst when she assented.
How easy it would be to say yes. But the word stuck in her throat, or somewhere even deeper than her throat for that matter. She leaned across the table and placed her hand over the box, shut it, and held his hand under hers. Annoyance rose like smoke—why did he have to do this in public where it would now shame them both? But she wouldn’t show irritation; he was trying to be romantic.
“Lachlan, I don’t want to say no. It’s the wrong answer. But I can’t say yes either. I don’t know why. I beg you to understand.”
“I think I understand.” He stood and his face burned red with embarrassment. She wanted to fix it for him, to say yes and get it over with, to lessen his despair.
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